Behind the garages of this country
"Behind the garages of this country there are tires choked by grass" David McComb.
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Have been listening to The Triffids, after returning on a long road trip, through murray mallee country, and many a place with tyres choking in the grass. It seems again, as though Australia is made up of the red dirt interior, or dreams of ocean swimming, wriggling free in deep water but fighting the powerful ocean waves.
Last weekend I swam around the Semaphore jetty. It was probably the highlight of my week, month even. On Monday I visit a port town, busy with the industry associated with shipping out minerals via the sea. There is a long jetty for the cargo ships to be loaded from. When the plane circles in the sky above, you see it all, the deep turquoise of the sea, the red hills rolling everywhere, and the busy industry of the waters edge. I’m always a sucker for the working wharves, the portside culture, the downmarket seaside life, loved the vulgarity of Brighton: lace curtains, garishly painted walls, fish and chips, vintage shops with antiques and clothes.
Gathering together a list of the things I want to read or listen to. The Triffids, of course, find the Do Re Mi albums that Tereance left behind, the new book by Kirsten Tranter, Meanjin, some extended long essays by favourite writers such as Helen Garner. Planning Robe and Hobart, researching Cygnet Folk Festival and other aspects of that far south city that I want to interact with along with friends and old locales. Compared to Tasmania, Robe is an easy trip. I would like a reading holiday-probably not possible with a small child, but I can only aspire. And I would also like to be present for him. He is so dear to me, such a wonderful kid, the most brilliant child we could imagine, a fun loving, laughing, sociable, persistant child who parrots the noises and gestures of his family.
Flashback to the 90s: Andy went to see The Clouds. I speculated about whether they would be wearing tracksuits. I'd found a new cafe, that caught my fancy, for the simplicity of peasant Italian food, modest coffee prices, and delightful 50/60s colour theme-sky blue walls. I returned to it with Rachel and the owner, Dom, said he recognised me from when I shopped at his retro clothing shop in the late 90s! He wanted to know everything I'd done since then, told me we had both travelled lots to now be back in Adelaide. All these years and I’m still wearing the same threads.
There are moments of clarity and purpose. Maria Island in February 2006 was one of those moments, when I felt I was on solid ground and had a grip on life and joked around with Don, the brain aneursym survivor. Robe two years ago, where we holidayed luxuriously, saving up Terence for our triumphant return back to the city. I’m thinking of these two moments, because I know how quickly they contrasted against following events. I like to invent ghosts in my life. Do people ever really leave and leave for good, and in the end, how different is their new life ?
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Have been listening to The Triffids, after returning on a long road trip, through murray mallee country, and many a place with tyres choking in the grass. It seems again, as though Australia is made up of the red dirt interior, or dreams of ocean swimming, wriggling free in deep water but fighting the powerful ocean waves.
Last weekend I swam around the Semaphore jetty. It was probably the highlight of my week, month even. On Monday I visit a port town, busy with the industry associated with shipping out minerals via the sea. There is a long jetty for the cargo ships to be loaded from. When the plane circles in the sky above, you see it all, the deep turquoise of the sea, the red hills rolling everywhere, and the busy industry of the waters edge. I’m always a sucker for the working wharves, the portside culture, the downmarket seaside life, loved the vulgarity of Brighton: lace curtains, garishly painted walls, fish and chips, vintage shops with antiques and clothes.
Gathering together a list of the things I want to read or listen to. The Triffids, of course, find the Do Re Mi albums that Tereance left behind, the new book by Kirsten Tranter, Meanjin, some extended long essays by favourite writers such as Helen Garner. Planning Robe and Hobart, researching Cygnet Folk Festival and other aspects of that far south city that I want to interact with along with friends and old locales. Compared to Tasmania, Robe is an easy trip. I would like a reading holiday-probably not possible with a small child, but I can only aspire. And I would also like to be present for him. He is so dear to me, such a wonderful kid, the most brilliant child we could imagine, a fun loving, laughing, sociable, persistant child who parrots the noises and gestures of his family.
Flashback to the 90s: Andy went to see The Clouds. I speculated about whether they would be wearing tracksuits. I'd found a new cafe, that caught my fancy, for the simplicity of peasant Italian food, modest coffee prices, and delightful 50/60s colour theme-sky blue walls. I returned to it with Rachel and the owner, Dom, said he recognised me from when I shopped at his retro clothing shop in the late 90s! He wanted to know everything I'd done since then, told me we had both travelled lots to now be back in Adelaide. All these years and I’m still wearing the same threads.
There are moments of clarity and purpose. Maria Island in February 2006 was one of those moments, when I felt I was on solid ground and had a grip on life and joked around with Don, the brain aneursym survivor. Robe two years ago, where we holidayed luxuriously, saving up Terence for our triumphant return back to the city. I’m thinking of these two moments, because I know how quickly they contrasted against following events. I like to invent ghosts in my life. Do people ever really leave and leave for good, and in the end, how different is their new life ?
Watching Autoluminescent introduced me to the greatness of Rowland S Howards music and the sadness that although he got himself clean and recorded a great album and found another great love, he still died. I left the cinema in tears. The black and white photos of the beginnings of it all, the group of friends brokered by art school and were really so young, teenagers, when they started the first steps of what turned out to be fertile period of music/post punk culture. I think that’s why I liked MELBOURNE by Sophie Cunningham, because she described a life led to reach a point where the world of writing is used to promote and document social justice campaigns. Her personal story-of living in Fitzroy, the gentrification but also the enduring alternative culture is a story of Melbourne too.
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